


Blossom on the Breeze

by Crollalanza



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: F/F, Fluff and Angst, Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 20:12:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4193367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crollalanza/pseuds/Crollalanza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Kiyoko sleeps, her flower girl waits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blossom on the Breeze

**Author's Note:**

  * For [boxofwonder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boxofwonder/gifts).



> This is a birthday gift for Nico. You were my first Haikyuu friend and although I contacted you with some trepidation, you were very friendly and approachable. You're also incredibly talented and I love your stories very much. I think I said once before that you're like Bokuto, not because you're a big dumb owl (you are adorable, though), but because you inspire me and I get fired up reading your fics. 
> 
> Uhm, anyway, I hope you like this.

She smells of flowers.

Nice flowers, too, not the overpowering ones her mum likes, or the sickly floral perfume Kiyoko’s sister sprays on her wrists before she has a date.

No, this girl smells of cherry blossom before it has drifted from the tree. That moment of stillness, in fresh spring air, when there’s no sound except a thrum of anticipation. She smells of hope and belief and ... _life_.

At first it’s the only thing Kiyoko knows about the girl. But it doesn’t take her long to realise there’s much more to her than cherry blossom on the breeze.

The girl’s voice is a little shrill, but also gentle. Yet for some reason, it doesn’t sound right to Kiyoko. There’s something a little off about the tone – unrecognisable – which means Kiyoko must know her from somewhere. It’s like the girl is trying to keep a lid on her emotions, which isn’t her way at all. As if she has something very important to say, but she’s too scared to open up. Kiyoko wants to tell her that that keeping everything bottled up isn’t the best way to be. That sometimes confession, though scary, is the only way forward. Because then, even if it all goes so very wrong, at least you know. And can move on.

You hope.

~*~

 Why do so many boys talk to her?  Some days she feels overwhelmed by their attempts to make her smile, to have her laugh, to get her to talk to them. Some days – no – _most_ days, she wishes she had her clipboard so she could swat them away and be left in peace.

_Clipboard,_ why has she thought of that?

~*~

The girl who smells of flowers has gentle fingers. When she braids Kiyoko’s hair, and her warm fingertips touch her scalp, she murmurs an apology.  She’s inept at braiding at first; Kiyoko can hear a quaver in her voice when she speaks, and she wants to tell her that it’s fine, that despite not being the best braider, not having the skill for exact French or fishtail plaits, she’s tender and kind and smells so sweet that Kiyoko doesn’t mind if her hair’s a little askew.

But Kiyoko’s been closed off all her life, and she’s not sure she can find the words to tell this flower girl exactly how much this all means to her. And these days she’s even more reserved, unable to even tell her mum how much she hates the gardenias she insists on bringing with her. Their scent infiltrates the room, and Kiyoko finds it hard to breathe, but she never says a word because her mum starts to talk and won’t let up.

People have been _told_ to talk to her. She knows that because she can hear voices hammering at her, but she never replies. They’re persistant - the voices - and far too desperate. Kiyoko knows she should feel guilty for not talking back, but she ... doesn’t feel like it today. And ... why does she have to do what they want all the time? Because it is ALL THE TIME, and right now, right at this particular moment all Kiyoko wants is silence.

And to float on the breeze.

 

“We think she hears male voices more acutely,” someone – a man – says. “At least she reacts the most to them. So keep talking. One of you may be the answer.”

_Rubbish,_ Kiyoko thinks and determines not to react whenever the deep growls reach her ears. Because the male voices never let her be. They persist, and plead, and won’t shut up and it’s like a mallet in her head trying to thump her towards something she does not want. And they’re impatient, too, not understanding the value of waiting. Not knowing  that the anticipation for falling cherry blossom is more potent than when it actually falls.

~*~

She feels she must know the flower girl from somewhere. She’s familiar, although that could be based on the fragrance and the fact that she visits every day, but it could also be another connection. There’s something about her, about _them_ , that forces itself to the front of Kiyoko’s consciousness, but then it will go, and all that’s left is a fuzz of an image, and that elusive scent of blossom.

The fingers are getting nimbler, not tugging, and as they weave the tresses of hair, they tease out both knots and memories.

~*~

There was a boy talking to her, persuasive and even at fifteen his voice had a rich timbre. She remembers staring up at him, and then nodding, perfectly composed even though inside she really wasn’t sure what she’d agreed to.

_Sawamura_ , she thinks.  _And Suga- his friend with the  fluffy hair. And who was the giant? The scary one who wasn’t scary at all, but sweet like a teddy bear. Asahi... Asahi Azumane. Gentle as a puppy._

Boys have been more annoying recently, very persistant, even more annoying than the time Tanaka –

_Oh... Tanaka ... yes. And Nishinoya. Irritating idiots that need to grow up, behave more like their senpais, especially as they fancy themselves as senpais now._

Then the memories, which were flooding her - of cheering, of tears, of shouts, frustration, encouragement, and _utter_ sadness - stop.  And something worries at Kiyoko because the swirls of images – of red hair, and a boy flying far higher than anyone thought possible – become confused with someone else, someone who also carries the sunshine with them.

A girl.  _The_ girl. One not connected with defeat, but with hope.

~*~

_‘I admire you very much’_ the note had said. Kiyoko had plucked it from her locker on her last day of school, and smiled. She’d felt lighter than she had in days, in weeks even, because although this particular confessor had attempted to disguise their handwriting, the perfection of the kanji, and the minuscule doodles of petals on the corners of the page had given her away.

_‘Take all my thoughts and wishes and love with you, Shimizu-san, and give your future wings.’_

Distracted, but happy (so happy) stepping into the road when she caught sight of blonde hair tied with cherry pink ribbons. Ready to reciprocate, to laugh, and cry and maybe touch her lips to that cheek as soft as blossom on the breeze.

There’d been a scream and the screech of tyres, and then _nothing._ The voices started shortly after, a confused jumble whirling in her head,

(‘Don’t move, Shimizu-kun. The ambulance is on its way. Don’t move your head.  Stay still.’)

And the fury of words around her. The shouts (Can you hear me?) rapped orders (Squeeze my hand!)  and voices badgering her all the time (Wake up, Kiyoko-chan!).

She wanted peace, that was all, and a chance to dream.

 “Shimizu-san,” _she_ had whispered, all those days before, and Kiyoko had known she was close because she could smell the blossom.  Her hand, so small, had clutched Kiyoko’s. “Rest now. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

~*~

There’d been a lot of tomorrows, Kiyoko didn’t know how many, but she knew when time had passed because the girl breezed in, chatting a little, braiding more often, soothing and not exhorting as she stumbled over words.

“I ... um ... We _all_ miss you, Shimizu-san,” she’d say before she left.

_Come back to where? To this place where they won’t leave me alone? Where they nag and plead and don’t let me rest._

She feels a small hand touch hers, fingers interlinking.  “ _I_ miss you, Kiyoko-san.”

“She’s calmer with you,” someone – another male voice – says.

And the flower girl smiles. Kiyoko knows she’s smiling because on that day, that soft beautiful early Spring afternoon, she opens her eyes.

“Yacchan,” she murmurs, at perfect peace because at last she’s remembered her name.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I posted the fic this morning then deleted in a fit of panic and a dumb anxiety attack. I've since rewritten some of this, and feel a touch happier.


End file.
